by Mariah Dietz
Bending the Rules
The Dating Playbook, Book: 1
Mariah Dietz
Contents
Also by Mariah Dietz
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Next
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Mariah Dietz
All rights reserved.
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Also by Mariah Dietz
His Series:
Becoming His
Losing Her
Finding Me
The Weight of Rain Duet
The Weight of Rain
The Effects of Falling
Curveball
Exception
The Fallback
Tangled in Tinsel, A Christmas Novella
1
I never considered myself much of a rule breaker. I wasn’t a follower. I wasn’t a leader. I was just me, Raegan, queen of naps, lover of sweatpants, and obsessive reader, working to acquire my dream job as a cetologist so I can study whales and dolphins outside of college. And volleying between pretending the man of my dreams will one day realize how perfect we are together and trying to convince myself I’m over him—that is, until I hear his name again.
Everyone has one. A name that makes them pause when heard. A combination of vowels and consonants strung together to create an entire web of memories and thoughts. For me, those letters spelled Lincoln Beckett. And like trying to convince myself that the three-year crush I’ve been harboring for him is over, I try to pretend the name doesn’t cast a spell over me. That I can hear his name and not work to listen to what news follows. After all, thinking about Lincoln is the very worst of bad ideas.
Why?
Simply put, there are at least ten rules against dating your brother’s best friend, beginning with the very fact that he’s your brother’s best friend. Secondly, he’s guaranteed to know way too much about your life, your family, and your brother’s illustrious decisions. The only thing that might be worse would be dating your best friend’s brother—thankfully for me, my best friend’s brother is eleven.
Therefore, universal laws, fate, karma, sibling code, and every other fictional or otherwise belief ought to ensure my brother’s best friend look okay-ish at worst and troll-ish at best. This was my experience for the first sixteen years of my life. My brother, Paxton, is three years older than me, and his childhood best friend, Caleb, has a red Brillo Pad for hair, two-million freckles, and is so painfully awkward it’s endearing. I have no problem wearing a bikini or a facial mask in front of him. If I burp or trip over my own feet, it’s not a problem. If I pig out on ice cream, I simply ask him if he’d like a bowl.
Then, Paxton started at Brighton University in Seattle, Washington, where our dad is the Dean of Business, and he was quickly deemed a God because of his skills on the football field as the quarterback.
And my world went to hell.
Fate stuck her big, ugly middle finger up and has been saluting me with it since. Maybe it’s because I lied to my mom about the dent in the back of her car that actually did happen when I’d borrowed it and illegally drove my best friend, Poppy, to the mall. Maybe it was because I'd pierced my naval when I was thirteen after paying a stranger twenty bucks to sign the release form. Or, maybe it was because fate had taken it easy on me for the first sixteen years of my life and decided I hadn’t shown enough appreciation. And the day Paxton brought Lincoln over for dinner, fate waved her ‘fuck you, Raegan’ flag so high you could see it across the Pacific.
Lincoln Beckett, AKA the President, was not a scrawny gamer like Caleb. Rather, he was tall, and his broad shoulders only enunciated this fact. His biceps were corded, and his dark hair was mussed and perfectly imperfect in the sexiest way possible. And to make matters worse, he was smart, armed with a quick smile and sharp wit that made his brown eyes shine with humor. Seeing him had me forgetting I’d been crushing on senior Michael Porter for three months—hell, it had me forgetting my own name.
I was screwed.
To add injury to insult, the day Pax brought Lincoln over, I’d begun my period, and my skin was breaking out. I’d already switched my contacts for glasses, my face was scrubbed clean, and I was wearing baggy sweats to complete my homeless appearance. Had it been Caleb, I wouldn’t have even blinked, but the sight of Lincoln standing in the kitchen where I was helping mom finish dinner had me wishing I had an invisibility cloak or at least an excuse to leave.
Paxton moved out a month later, and though he returned home frequently for hot meals and laundry, Lincoln only came by a few times, leaving me to lust after him mostly by memory and occasionally seeing him when I’d stop by the house the two of them rented along with Caleb and Arlo, another teammate who I’d also be fine by Pax being best friends with.
This year, I’m a freshman at Brighton and gone are the days of me fantasizing about Lincoln Beckett, the starting wide receiver and highly acclaimed football player with a killer smile. The man who’s so frequently on the news that he’s amassed zillions of fans and admirers, my parents included.
Nope.
No.
Not happening.
“Maybe I should have worn the pink shirt.” Poppy tugs on her pale blue blouse for the tenth time.
“This is awkward,” I say, ignoring her comment because I’ve already assured my best friend that she looks great a hundred times to no avail. It's obviously not my validation she’s seeking. “We’re so early. We're going to look like idiots just hanging around and waiting.” She’s my number one reason for attending Brighton, a University known for football and its legal program. It’s prestigious and expensive and thankfully has a strong marine biology program.
“People hang out all the time.” Poppy looks around as though to prove her point.
“Yeah, when they have a reason to.”
“We do. You have a class in twenty minutes.” She looks away, her gaze sweeping across the corridor. “Do you think any of t
he rugby team will be in our classes?”
“Rugby team?”
Poppy grins, tucking her copper-red hair behind one ear. “They're seriously hot. One look at Blaine Campbell or Nick Carrol, and you're going to be like Lincoln who?”
I laugh. “You've already memorized their names?”
“Oh, Raegan, after you see these guys you won’t even blink when you hear Lincoln’s name.”
I stare at her for a moment, waiting for sense to catch up to my best friend. “You do realize the hottest guy on campus is Lincoln, right?”
“The hottest guy on the football team, yes, but now we have the entire University at our fingertips.” She flexes her fingers, her hot pink polish shining in the bright morning sunlight. “Trust me, in a month, you won't even remember who Lincoln is.”
I don't voice my doubts. I don’t want to have them. I want to believe my best friend is right, and that this crush will soon be filed away as an embarrassing memory.
We pass a couple of guys who turn as we walk by. One whistles. The other asks for our phone numbers.
“Gross,” I say.
An arm slides around my shoulders, and I look up, ready to pull away, but stop when I see my brother's friend and roommate, Arlo. “What's up, ladies?”
“Are all guys creeps?” I ask, ducking out from under the weight of his arm.
“Us? Creeps?” Arlo laughs. “Hold up, Pax and the Pres are behind me. They're just chasing a skirt. Fresh meat on campus.” He whoops.
My heart stutters—a standard reaction to hearing his name. I turn, trying to catch sight of them, working to remain calm. Then, I straighten my back, replaying Arlo’s words. “You really are all creeps.” I shove Arlo’s arm off again when he drapes it over my shoulders.
“Don’t make me kill you, Kostas.” Pax appears with Lincoln at his side, pulling my attention like a magnet.
“My hands remained out of the end zone at all times.” Arlo raises them as though to prove a point.
“Paws off,” Paxton declares. “Otherwise, you're going to be trying to catch the ball with your teeth this season.”
“Man, you're going to have your work cut out for you,” Arlo says, smiling. “Freshmen are the flames we’re moths. You know how it works.”
Pax shakes his head, looking at Lincoln. “Poppy and Raegan are off-limits. You guys hear anyone on the team or anyone else saying something you kick their ass.” Pax’s blue eyes that match mine in both shape and color peer around us.
“Easy, caveman. Remember you've evolved a few hundred centuries. Come out of your cave, lower your stick, and realize times have changed. Women now have rights. We can vote, wear pants, rule countries. And these women…” I point between Poppy and myself, “…will kick your ass if you meddle with who we date.”
Pax throws his arm over my shoulder, folding his arm so he has me in what likely looks like a loose headlock. It’s something he's done since we were young. “Don't get all huffy. Trust me, us looking out for you guys is way better. These guys are all just looking to get laid.”
I shrug. “Maybe we are, too?”
Arlo cheers again to push Pax off the thin ledge his hopes were stacked upon.
Pax sputters, tightening his grip around my neck. “I did not just hear my little sister talk about having sex!”
“No shaming!” Arlo says. “How many girls did you sleep with your freshman year?” he poses the question to Paxton.
I raise my hands, covering my ears. “La, la, la, la, la. I don’t want to know. La. La. La. La.”
Paxton pulls my hands free. “Probably less than half the number of girls The President banged.”
I cringe at the reminder of the third rule I have for dating—never date a player.
Lincoln makes no attempt to disagree, his full lips pulled into a delicious smile that makes my stomach tingle. Good God, I love his smile. Everyone does. And to make matters worse, he knows it and uses it to his advantage, wielding it like a weapon.
“You guys are pigs,” I say, shoving Pax away.
Poppy grins. “Don't worry, we won't bother with the football team. You guys can stick to your little cleat chasers. We're introducing ourselves to the rugby team. Did you know they don't wear any pads?” She raises her eyebrows to let the insinuation sink in. “Talk about real men.”
The three of them automatically reply, throwing insults and jabs at the sport and the players.
“Real men, “Arlo scoffs and grabs himself through his jeans. “I'll show you—”
Lincoln smacks the bill of Arlo’s baseball hat, sending it flying.
“You guys are better than asshole jocks,” Pax adds.
“Wait. So, you do know you're all a bunch of assholes?” I ask, feigning surprise.
Pax grins. “You should find a nice guy. Maybe a tech geek or a book nerd like you?”
“Watch it. I know where you sleep, and I still have your spare key,” I warn him.
“Want to use it tonight?” Arlo waggles his eyebrows.
“Don’t push me, Kostas,” Pax warns. “Your ass will be doing lines today for practice.”
Arlo only laughs, undeterred. I'm fairly certain he only flirts with me to irritate my brother.
Poppy giggles. I duck out from under Pax and veer to the left in the direction of the math buildings. “I have to get to class.”
“We still have twenty minutes!” Poppy protests.
“I know, but I want to get a good seat.”
She frowns, her shoulders sagging. “Soak it up while you can because, after this week, you’re going to be a normal college student, slipping into class with five seconds to spare.”
I don’t even attempt to remind her that won’t ever happen. She already knows my aspiration to become a cetologist can’t be rivaled with.
“My fingers are crossed that you have a rugby player in your class!” Poppy yells.
I laugh. “You, too!”
Paxton shakes his head. “At least spare me the details.”
“Done,” I agree.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
I scrunch my nose. “Math.”
Pax grins. “I'm heading over to the math buildings, too, hang on. Pop, if you need anything, just let one of us know.” He pauses, his gaze moving between her and me. “I’m serious, though. You guys don’t want to get mixed up with any athletes. All they care about is the game and what happens on the field. None of them are looking for anything serious because they’re all hoping to either be drafted or possibly transfer to a new school for a better position.”
Rule number four feels like a lead weight in my stomach: don’t get attached to someone who’s going to leave soon. Poppy’s ex-boyfriend, Mike, taught me this lesson, and I already know Lincoln will be moving on to bigger and better things—possibly as soon as the end of this year, next year at the latest.
“We’re not looking for engagement rings,” Poppy tells him. “I don’t know why guys always assume girls want to get serious? Have you ever stopped to consider maybe we just want to casually date?”
Paxton’s eyes narrow in thought, then he looks at Arlo and Lincoln. “Pretty sure we’ve seen enough crying girls to prove otherwise.”
“Tears of joy,” I say.
Pax smirks. “This isn’t high school. Here, athletes are practically celebrities. People ask for our autographs and our pictures. Follow us on and off campus. They randomly show up at the house. I’ve had girls sneak into my bed. I get sexts every damn day, and I’ve been proposed to at least a dozen times. Trust me when I say there are a lot of girls looking for more than a good time. They want money and fame, and they know that’s a possibility if they find the right dude.”
“That’s pathetic,” I say.
His smirk grows as he shrugs. “Is it? Do you know how much a first draft athlete makes?”
“If a girl is only trying to sleep with you because she’s hoping to date a famous athlete, then she deserves to shed a few tears,” Poppy says before I can co
nsider girls looking at my brother in the light he’s painting.
I look at my best friend, and she’s cool and calm, her shoulders pulled back, likely because this news isn’t sending her reeling, realizing that even without the obvious ten rules for me not to date Lincoln, there’s an entire campus vying for his attention.
“Trust me, you guys don’t want to get mixed up in all that drama,” Paxton says again.
Poppy smiles widely. “We already know to avoid the football team. Our attention is set on rugby. We also have the swimming team. Water polo. Wrestling.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Lacrosse…”
“Lacrosse,” Arlo scoffs. “How is that even a sport?”
“Okay, I’m really going this time.” I take two steps back, offering a half-hearted wave before turning around.
“Yes,” Paxton says. “Focus on school and important shit.”
“Like you do?” Poppy asks, sarcasm has her lowering her chin and raising her eyebrows.
“Do what I say not what I do, or however that shit goes.” He jogs the few feet to catch up to me and drapes an arm over my shoulders, matching my pace.
“Hey, Lawson!”
Paxton and I both turn at the sound of our last name. Lincoln stands beside Arlo, grinning.
“What?” Pax yells.
“Nothing.” Lincoln shakes his head, and then a girl walks past him, saying something to him that I can’t hear from where we’re stopped some hundred feet away.
